


no matter where the place

by Mira_Jade



Series: woman, how divine your mission [3]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: . . . Hamilton took my muse and got wordy, . . . and I mean introspection in a long way, . . . but they keep living anyway, . . . it's what happens when you finally give his POV a turn, . . . that's a warning all its own, Alexander Hamilton vs. Feelings Round #851, Canon Era, Character Study, Families of Choice, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Introspection, Period-Typical References to Slavery, Valley Forge, War is Not a Happy Pretty Thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-20 06:20:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8239151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mira_Jade/pseuds/Mira_Jade
Summary: With Lady Washington due to arrive at Valley Forge, the general's aides make their preparations, each in their own way.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Because it was only a matter of time before we got to hear from Hamilton's POV. I hope that you enjoy this - admittedly, rather wordy - walk through his mind . . . which was _supposed_ to be a vignette of roughly 2k words to bridge us from Morristown to the next story in this series, but then turned into _this_. I know, I know: you're welcome. ;)
> 
> In all seriousness, though, I thank you guys for your support and encouragement, as always. You are truly the best!

Hibiscus grew wild and bright on the south side of the island. There, the secluded stretches of seashore and forgotten coves of St. Croix, beyond the port-town of Christianshed, was where Alexander Hamilton was allowed to wander and explore uninhibited, free to follow his own inclination and devices. There, he was far enough away from the brimming docks and the sea-harsh souls who flooded them, just as he was well past the sugar fields with the rough-handed overseers and the empty-eyed thralls who cut the cane underneath the hot Caribbean sun. On some days, he took his books to where the turquoises waves met the white sand, and read underneath the shade of the palm trees, listening to the lull of the ocean and letting the surf cool his bare feet during the few hours when his mother did not need his assistance in the shop. Sometimes - as when the drink was high in his father and his mother reached her limit with James Hamilton's . . . _habits -_  he would retreat with the number sheets for the shop, regardless. He'd rather be anywhere else in order to escape the screams and violence of overturned furniture and slamming doors that inevitably followed. There, in his seaside refuge, the island was quiet . . . calm and beautiful, almost deceivingly so, and he could lose himself in his own mind . . . That was, until the sun began to tip from its high cradle in the sky, declaring it time for him to head home. He knew better than to be out past dark, even within the relative safety of the empty southern coast, lest he set his mother to worrying.  
  
And, lately . . . three weeks had past since they last had sight or word of his father, and his mother had gone from patiently answering his queries with, _“_ _I'm sure we can expect your father_ _soon, love,”_ to _“The devil take him if he does_ _show his face again._ _”_ James Hamilton was gone, Alexander was trying to make his heart understand as well as the higher reasoning of his mind. _Gone_. The word was simple, it's meaning clear, yet he was unusually slow to wrap his mind around the blunt truth of that single syllable. His father was gone . . .  _gone . . ._ and he was not coming back.  
  
_So stop your tears, Alex, and g_ _row up._ _Mother_ _can't handle_ _worry_ _ing_ _over you right now - you're only making this harder on her,_ his brother had scoffed, even as Alexander narrowed his eyes and thought: but he was not crying. He had not; not once. Not even on the empty beach where no one but the parrots and seabirds could see.  
  
Though he felt that his brother's accusation of _childishness_ was unfair, Alexander did agree with Jamie on one thing: his mother had too much weight on her shoulders to bear. He, in the small way that he could, wished to help relieve that burden.  
  
So, it was with as flourishing a bow as his ten year old limbs could manage that he presented his gift: a bouquet of red and yellow hibiscus blooms, sweetly smelling and gayly colored next to the tired, grey-blue tones of their tiny apartment above the shop. They were a bright burst of colour in the gloom, brave against the lengthening shadows, whose smiling faces he hoped would make his mother smile in return.  
  
“You like to watch the hummingbirds,” Alexander explained the thought behind his gift, pride making his voice round as a boast. “Once we put them in some water by the window, perhaps they will come and visit you here.”  
  
The hummingbirds, he knew, did not like the crowded streets of the town, they hesitated to fly so close to the harbor – where all was loud and smelled more of smoke and the musty congestion of mankind, rather than the clean, salty scent of the ocean and _green_ that the rest of the island bore like a natural perfume. The tiny birds did not brave the ways of men, not even for the hibiscus bushes that Mrs. Martin grew outside of her parlor. And yet, he hoped with a child's hope, that here, perhaps . . .  
  
Rachel Hamilton, or, rather . . . Rachel Faucette _L_ _a_ _vi_ _e_ _n_ , Alexander had so recently learned with their return to St. Croix, away from the ignorance of childhood and the veneer of legitimacy that had shielded him in Nevis . . . had no time as of late to visit the ocean and watch the birds play where the white sand met the jungled hills as she used to with him. Yet, Alexander was comfortable in his logic; he was proud of the conclusions he had drawn; he would bring the forgotten beauty of the island to his mother, and she would smile again. It was that simple. It would be enough.  
  
“Oh, Alex, love,” Rachel's voice was soft, but Alexander nonetheless recognized her tone. It was a familiar tone . . . a tired tone. It was a timbre she used to explain what _death_ was the first time one of his infant siblings faded in the night . . . a voice she used when she explained why the dark skinned laborers with their vacant (ragingterrified _empty_ ) eyes in the market were less, rather than _equal_ . . . when she explained what the word _bastard_ meant, and why his father . . .  
  
Instinctively, Alexander stiffened, no matter that Rachel's touch remained gentle as she traced the lush petals of the flowers with one careful fingertips. The carmine red was very dark against the paleness of her hands, even in the half-light from the encroaching evening; she had not been in the sun enough as of late for her skin to bronze as Alexander's had in the heat. “The hummingbirds will not be tempted by flowers wilting in a house,” Rachel said. “They are wild things, and they'll not come to a place like this, no matter how beautiful a bouquet you gather.”  
  
But she saw something in his eyes that he thought to quickly blink away, and she reached over to tip his chin up. _Never let your head hang, no matter what you feel inside – that's only for you and the Lord to know,_ he could hear her words as if she spoke them aloud. “Instead,” Rachel's voice turned with a coaxing brightness, “we can enjoy their color, their beauty, their scent, for the brief time we can. That will be more than enough, don't you think? I thank you, dear, for your gift. You've quite brightened my day.”  
  
But that was _not_ enough, his mind sullenly declared. How could it be, when he had first imagined so much _more?_ He frowned, but kept holding his head up high as he gave his promise, “I'll figure out how to bring the hummingbirds to you, Mother. Just you wait and see.”  
  
“I have no doubt that if anyone could, it would be you,” Rachel gave a rare, wry smile to say. The glow from the setting sun painted ribbons of orange across her face as the rays slipped through the wood-beamed shades over the windows. The tropical light caught in her eyes, making them bright – falling star bright, it had then seemed to his child's mind. That picture of her was a memory that would long stay with him, for many years to come. “Yet, for now, there are orders in and there is work to be done before supper. Would you mind giving your mother a hand after I put these up?”  
  
Of course he did not mind; he would help where he could. Yet, even as he reached for the tally sheet, Alexander caught sight of the hibiscuses as his mother arranged them in their vase, and let himself ponder.  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
The approaching end of winter in Valley Forge felt as a victory, a success, a _triumph_ as certain as any they may have known at Trenton and Princeton the winter before.  
  
Of course, the merciless skies were still emptying snow upon their camp seemingly every other day, and the relentless flurries only joined the already impossibly large drifts of ice and snow between the cabin rows without letup. The winter was not  _quite_ through with them, but the end was growing within reach. February was upon them, and with the March to follow distantly promising some relief from the horrid season they had just endured . . .  
  
. . . well, it was enough to look forward to, no matter how slight the respite was.  
  
Nearly as taxing a foe as the weather had been the other . . . conditions they had to fend against that season, Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton reflected. At first, their position at Valley Forge had been chosen for both its proximity to General Howe's army (putting them close enough to both engage the British harassing the countryside and protect their displaced Congress from harm), and its adjoining timber rich forests and bountiful fields (with the brimming storehouses of Pennsylvania being ready and eager to feed the army defending their liberties, or so they first had thought). Yet, with the British willing to pay sterling silver for colonial goods (when not requisitioning 'patriot' properties and 'volunteered' wares outright, of course), and their newly minted American money worth only the paper it was printed upon, their army went hungry whilst surrounded by a surplus. He looked around, only to see so many men lacking in a way that he had not known since his darkest childhood days in the Caribbean – and that was with him eating relatively well for his position on the general's staff when compared to the poor wretches who had to make due with merely flour and water on their worst days that hellish season.  
  
A war of any lasting years could not be supported by mere _patriotism_ alone, General Washington had once darkly observed as he plotted attacking another British supply line – for they had not the authority to appropriate goods from the states by Congress' own decree, and they would not steal from their own countrymen . . . not yet were they that desperate, at least. With national fervor for their cause waning, and greed and fear winning out amongst the merchant class, their army limped and struggled on as a result. There was little Congress could do to appeal to the American public when it had sacrificed its ability to centrally govern the states with its latest Articles; especially when the states preferred to send their donations - their goods and money and manpower - to the ambitious and comparably _safe_ seats to be found in legislature, thus forming a governing body who then had the _gall_ to _criticize_ -  
  
“The cheek of them, to protest our even _retreating_ to winter quarters in the first place.” At first, even Alexander's self-admitted genius had not been able to comprehend the letter when Washington shoved it into his hands – with his fuming commander looking to him for the words to subtly but _firmly_ rebuke the thoughtless hands who had dared to pen such a missive. “We are not _Howe,_ to be entertained in comfort and decadence while the weather is too foul to march. No, our men fell their own timber and build their own shelters whilst sleeping underneath the snow in the meantime, and many do so with empty bellies and naked feet – yes, such a _relaxing holiday_ do they enjoy. Even the seats of our Congress in exile are those cushioned by a warm fire, with never an empty plate or wanting wine glass. Yes, it is all too easy to cast remonstrances from such a perch - _distressingly_ so."  
  
For it was distressing . . . disheartening, even, to see the conditions their men suffered in, knowing that even if they obeyed Congress' orders to fight, a single well placed blow from the British would see to the end of their fledgling nation in one sure stroke. Better was it that Howe regarded their suffering in ignorance, while merely assuming that it was only the severity of the season that kept them strapped to their place, rather than the condition of their army. Only Providence, or some other such divining power, kept that illusion blissfully in place.  
  
. . . and that was not even to mention the _cabal_ that had sprang up against their commander-in-chief since their loss of Philadelphia that fall. _Losses_ , Congress sneered, disregarding the simple, amazing fact that such a rag-tag, volunteer army nearly devoid of professional experience as theirs had held their own - and had even _attacked_ \- the greatest army known to mankind since _Rome_. Though their daring to-do had resulted in a loss - more due to ill weather and poor intelligence than through fault of their men, Alexander would proudly contest - they had come _so close_ to achieving their goals that their losses had left only determination blazing in the hearts of their men, even so. Only the arrival of winter had killed the righteous rage of their campaign; only the lack of support from the states, and the basic-most need for humane living conditions in camp had dampened the flame of their ardor.  
  
But Congress could not see that, and even dared to claim the need to _change_ the very leadership that kept the motley fabric of their army from fraying completely. Though the whispers and backroom scheming had since ended with Washington's annoyed promise (threat, truly) that if anyone could be found who could better care for his soldiers than he, he would _gladly_ resign his commission and return to the comforts of private life, that still did not mean that the likes of Gates and Conway and _Lee_ were wholly silent. No, Alexander was nearly certain, they were merely being careful now . . . biding their time and considering their options . . . they were merely lying in wait, looking for weakness, watching for an opportunity to present itself . . .  
  
. . . and he, in turn, would be watching them.  
  
In the meantime, after riding through the long rows of cabins on Christmas morning – an overcast, bitterly cold day where Alexander had to forcefully keep his head held high and his back straight in the saddle as they passed the miserable wretches who were _his_ comrades . . . _his_ brothers in arms . . . and America's only faltering hope in her bloody struggle for independence – Alexander could only marvel that so many Continental soldiers stubbornly kept to their place and waited out the hellish season for the chance to fight for Washington again come the springtime, rather than turning tail and deserting. Their doing so was a testament to the indomitable nature of the human spirit, and even a credit to their commander-in-chief – no matter that Washington himself hung his head when he was on the other side of his tent, safely out of view from his men, and muttered, “Congress fears me for a Caesar . . . yet, at times I feel more like Moses, leading such a miserable group as this out of Egypt.”  
  
_We are_ _d_ _ependent on a miracle_ went unsaid, and Alexander had not bothered filling the air with such useless, obvious words . . . especially when the Hebrew god - if he remembered correctly - had kept his people fed and their shoes from tiring out in the wilderness. Their own men did not even have that small luxury with their naked feet and empty bellies.  
  
And . . . if Washington was Moses, then that most certainly made _him_ Aaron. That, Lafayette thought himself clever to remark, a forced playfulness brightening his voice with merriment. _Aaron_ , Alexander had bristled hear . . . merely a mouthpiece . . . a _spokesperson . . ._  an eloquent echo of his court-raised, god-appointed, but nonetheless still  _silent_  brother Moses. For here he was, wielding a pen, rather than a sword, when all he wanted was to be a Joshua or a Jephthah or a _Gideon_ , charging forth to lead his people into the promised land. The comparison, even from the mouth of a friend, was not the first time he had been accused of such, and he doubted that it would be the last. As ever, he felt an odd mixture of pride and bristling agitation at the knowledge - for though he was determined that history would well remember him for his words and deeds, he loathed the idea of being known to the annals of time as merely George Washington's aide . . . his writing right hand . . . his glorified  _secretary_. The idea of his legacy being that of a clever ghost-pen, little different than a well trained parrot, conveniently echoing his master's thoughts . . . no, such was a fate not to be borne.  
  
“I don't know, Alex. I certainly think that you have more than enough words within you to do both,” John Laurens had been the one to place a hand on his shoulder when he managed to articulate his feelings aloud. “This army has too many generals already, and too few men who can do what _you_ can do. Everything will fall into place in due time; I don't think you will have to wait for long to see a command.”  
  
Lafayette had no words to reply to his rancor. Instead, the Frenchman had merely stared at him as if he were a rare, inexplicable species of a man, quite beyond his capability to comprehend. Alexander had not cared for the look _at all_ , and had bristled within himself, even as he was oddly unable to properly express _why_ he felt so, even within his own heart.  
  
So: “Unless you have the hidden ability to call down _manna_ , we should all get back to work,” his ire made his voice sharp as he gestured to their waiting piles of letters. “I, for one, do not intend on going hungry for longer than I have to. I do not care if it's Christmastide; _write_.”

His words had been met without response, and he had further ignored his friends as John continued to try and catch his eye. Alexander had not the time for quarreling, or even good-natured bantering, that eve. He had an army to feed and soldiers to clothe – and Congress would help with neither without being pressed and prodded like cattle in a pen, and that was _exactly_ what Alexander intended to do.  
  
He wet his quill once more, and got to work.

Of course, that was now weeks ago, and that chilly day in February saw but little of any such work being completed – no matter that the table was stacked high with paper as it always was, with the shape of the war ever spinning on in ink and parchment, some days seemingly more so than with blood and bullets. Though they'd made some headway in clothing their army, and General Greene had been invaluable in feeding their troops from his new position as quartermaster, they still had some ways to go before Alexander would be satisfied. The winter in Valley Forge was not yet done with them, but neither was he done with their winter in Valley Forge. Not by a long-shot.  
  
That day, however, the grim reality of their circumstances was blithely ignored in favor of high spirits and expectant energy. There was a warm sort of current coursing through the general's staff, and each man knew more of staring out the window of the Potts' house to the icy roads beyond than down at his work for the day. The general, Alexander thought, was quite unable to check them with his own, similar regard for the view beyond their war-room, and Alexander fought the urge he had to sigh, knowing that _his_ pen would be the only one with productive words until the Lady arrived.  
  
Seated to his right, he elbowed Laurens to keep him working; John, being but little abashed, elbowed him back with a glare, and then continued to stare out the window. To John's right, Lafayette could barely sit still in his own chair. He acted more as an eagerly expectant child than a man grown, and a man of _nobility_ , at that. For seeing such, Alexander fought the urge he had to sigh – audibly so.  
  
. . . though, a distant part of Alexander reluctantly acknowledged, perhaps he should be more understanding than he currently was. Now midway through February, that time in the season was much later than Martha Washington usually chose to join their army camp. Caty Greene and Lucy Knox had already been with their husbands since Christmas, along with Lady Stirling and her daughter, and that was not counting the veritable army of female followers they had to augment their ranks in camp, at that. This year, however, there had been some family matters keeping the lady at home in Virginia for longer than she would have liked – for longer than the general preferred, that was for certain, though Washington was later only grateful that his wife had been spared witnessing the worst of their living conditions that winter. Even so, Alexander could easily espy the way the man seemed to wind himself tighter and tighter underneath the onus of his command the during the months since their last active march. He knew, for all their sakes, that Lady Washington would be well welcomed in Valley Forge if solely for her ability to share the general's yoke in spirit, and see that burden halved.  
  
From his first days serving on the general's staff, it had not taken him long to deduce the shape of the relationship the Washingtons shared. At first, Alexander knew only the rumors, telling the tale of a rich widow who took a soldier with a modest estate and trifle fortune as a second husband when she could have married far and beyond the likes of George Washington. Such dumb luck - or, Alexander privately thought, _cunning_ \- was not a story shaped by romance when it was told, and he had been more than surprised when Martha Washington made the long, cold trek from Virginia to join her husband the year before in Morristown. A lady with wealth was two things, in his experience: one, tight with her purse-strings, unless it came to fripperies; and, secondly, quite unwilling to live without her aforementioned fripperies once she was accustomed to having them.  
  
And, yet . . .  
  
“She made an even longer journey to Cambridge, the winter before the Declaration was even penned,” Tench Tilghman, the star-struck aide who'd served the longest of them all, had been all to happy to inform them the year before in New Jersey. There had been the pride of a zealot in his eyes to proclaim with an unfaltering certainty, “She's a lady as true as Queen Charlotte, and it's my honor to serve her as well as General Washington.”  
  
Choosing to wait and form his own judgment, Alexander had been silently impressed when he measured the stock of Martha Washington the winter before in Morristown. Where he had expected to find a spoiled plantation matron, used to her own way and her petty comforts, he instead found a woman simply and practically adorned, and as hardworking and self-sacrificing as any commissioned soldier. She cared but little to pass her time with trifles and frivolities when there were burdens she could alleviate from her husband's shoulders while she was by his side. Such, Alexander was quick to conclude, was to the relief of all who served on the general's staff – and he himself in particular.

Oh, he'd be the first to call the general a _great_ man, but that did not mean that he was an _easy_ man to work for - or _with_. George Washington was a firm taskmaster, with churning passions rippling underneath the mask of calm dignity he endeavored to wear in public. As such, there were times when others – oftentimes more so than Alexander thought was fair – clashed mightily with the leashed bounds of his temper in the relative privacy of his staff until it was let loose. Martha had a way of soothing her husband's spirits to the point where such . . . interludes were fewer and further between than when she was gone. When she was part of their camp, their commander-in-chief's head was level, and his decisions seemed swifter - surer, even. Overall, there was a peace about Washington's gravitas that oftentimes inspired a matching such countenance in those he led, and Alexander knew that much of that composure could be attributed to the softly smiling woman who never failed to leave his side - no matter the difficulties inherent of any army camp, let alone one as poorly provisioned or inexpertly manned as their own, be it in Massachusetts, New Jersey, or Pennsylvania.

And, perhaps, what was more than that . . . from early on, Alexander had learned that while he was expected to help with the majority of the general's correspondence, Martha was not one such task to be pacified and put aside with a few short lines and bland assurances of his survival throughout their conflict. Instead, the general seemed to be fond of his wife's appalling spelling and sporadic grammar – this, Alexander unfortunately knew from his first opening a letter he'd ought not have and quickly learning the error of his ways. In answer, the letter Washington built up during stolen moments throughout the course of every week were times when their commander clearly rested and recovered from the weight of governing the war, nearly as much as when he read her words in reply, no matter how censored by prying eyes they were.  
  
A strong partnership existed between the Washingtons, Alexander had been morbidly curious to conclude – a deep friendship, even, which could be explained by their many years together so much as by any deeper sentiment, and yet . . .  
  
. . . the general carried a small, pretty watercolour portrait of his wife in the breast-pocket of his coat – keeping it ever close to his heart, Alexander had once espied. His doing so was much as Lafayette ever carried a lock of his wife's hair upon his person, a token cherished from one battlefield to the next. _A_ _talisman_ , the marquis had explained with a soft, far-away sort of look in his eyes the one time Alexander had found him staring at it, _given to me when I kept those ridiculous parades as a king's Musketeer. We were not yet married, and the game was then childish between us. Yet, now . . ._  
  
John kept no token of his wife, but he did keep stealing Alexander's hair ribbons and wearing them around his wrist whenever he was not looking. Alexander let the other man keep his 'favors' with a fond roll of his eyes, each and every time. Truly, he wanted his friend to remember that there were those who cared about him - dearly and passionately so - whenever he was doing his level best to find himself in peril on the battlefield, just as . . .  
  
. . . yet, Alexander swallowed that thought, and could not quite allow it completion, even in his own mind.  
  
Kitty Livingston had tried to give him a ribbon to remember her by, her last day in Morristown the spring before, Alexander distantly remembered next. He was not quite sure what happened to the pretty strip of blue satin, and the lack of remorse he felt for its loss was echoed by his bafflement over the idea of caring about a woman deeply enough to _want_ to do so. He had his comrades in arms to succor his soul, he needed little else, he had long ago concluded . . . not yet, at any rate.  
  
Now, he watched as the general abandoned his place sitting at the head of their table, giving up on his writing back Henry Laurens and the whole of Congress in favor of pacing the tiny room in a restless way. His long stride made quick work of his path, time and time again, so much so that Alexander's nerves were on edge just watching him – though he seemed to be the only one of his fellow aides who felt as such while he attempted to least finish at least a fraction of his own work. With their commander at last abandoning his facade of productivity, many of the gathered aides and officers began chatting underneath their breath and casting open glances to the snowy road Lady Washington was braving from Virginia. Each and every one of them were like _children_ , giddily awaiting the arrival of a favourite parent.  
  
They were smitten, Alexander fought the urge he had to roll his eyes at his comrades – every last one of them.

In part, he knew that their excitement was due to the fact that each one of the general's aides - and a good deal of the officers, even - had gone out of their way to make the space set aside for Lady Washington in the Potts house a little more welcoming – all independently of the other, at first, and then smiling to realize that their motives were shared by their brothers in arms, as well.  
  
The quaint little room on the second floor, where Martha would be staying, was small and initially appointed with only the barest necessities. Alexander himself could walk upright underneath the low roof, but Lafayette had to duck so that the doorway did not brush his head, and he could not well imagine the _general_ stooping from his great height to call on his wife in the cramped space.

For such, they were already going have to fight the lady's sensibilities, Alexander knew. She cared not for any specialized accommodations, and though General Washington had first rented the house for his use he had yet to sleep underneath its roof in favor of keeping the same conditions his men did. Both canvas tents and crude log cabins were blessings enough when there were men who went without even the basic most necessities of living that winter, and Washington would not rest apart from then. Now, even with the spring soon approaching, the general would not give up his sleeping the same as his men did in what warmth and comfort his rank and station should have provided. Once the great drifts of snow began to melt and the weather turned warmer, Martha could insist on joining her husband in his preferred lodging, but Alexander knew that she would not win that argument until then. Not this time.

Such was, he knew, an arrangement she would be ill to bear. And yet, the conundrum of keeping their female compatriots in the comfort that chivalry demanded was already an issue that their army was well stumped to face. There were - roughly, by Alexander's estimation - only some forty men for every one woman in camp, with wives and sisters and mothers - and the ever hopeful girl aiming to snare herself a husband - joining their ranks to assist with every possible task besides physically manning a musket on the field. Even then, there were women who loaded cannons and darted forth like scavenger birds to pick up ammunition from the fallen dead on the battleground; they could not be stopped.  
  
Their numbers were a staggering ratio for any army, and all the more telling for the type of war they fought: a war, not to protect the interests of some faceless ruler over borders and frontiers, but a war with personal stakes, fought for their very  _homes_ and the right to live freely within them _._ With many of their soldiers giving up everything to fight, they left nothing behind for their families to even tend while they were gone. For a great deal in their army, their women had nowhere to go but to accompany their menfolk into battle, and so accompany them they did. Washington had long stopped trying to stay the tide of their numbers, and instead acknowledged that they were fighting a war for personal liberties and individual rights in every possible sense. They were fighting for _families_ , and the right for those families to grow and prosper under the benign influence of a free government. Such was a task that belonged to them all; not only to their able-bodied men.  
  
Yet, until then, no matter that the women knew what conditions they were signing on for when joining the male officers, that did not mean that chivalry disappeared completely, and they were determined to make conditions in camp as comfortable for the fairer sex as they could.  
  
To that end, Lafayette had been the first to acquire a tin of pekoe tea leaves for the inevitable services Martha would be hosting once word of her arrival spread and visitors began to queue for an audience with the wife of the commander-in-chief. Such was a veritable treasure in America even before their . . . tiffs with the East India Trading Company over the controversial product, and Lafayette had all but preened over his accomplishments with the black market. Alexander had merely snorted to point out the irony of Martha Washington, of all people, treating guests to tea parties, and Lafayette had replied, wounded, that the _contraband_ tea leaves were an act of rebellion, just the same, and Alexander could keep to his _coffee_ and his silence while they enjoyed their brew.  
  
John had used the same contact who kept him neatly provided with powder and pomades during the war to find a suitable supply for the lady, as well as a collection of soaps and other indulgences. The hygiene of all the men seemed to go up when there were women underfoot, after all, and when John was asked he only shrugged to say that he tried to think of something that would be practically enjoyed but not asked for outright. Hard soap of fat and lye would do for the soldiers, but he would spare the general's wife some comforts where he could.  
  
Without the deep pockets of his comrades, Tench Tilghman had tooled a leather journal for the lady – a rich gift, Alexander knew, from where he was often pestering the other man for similar such boons. A saddle-maker before the war, whose shop had burned to the ground by Tories for his agreeing to the Articles of Non-importation the first Congress had agreed to, Tench enjoyed practicing an off-shoot of his art during the long winter hours while they waited for the spring. As a result, the journal bore delicate designs of daisies and leaves etched into the book as opposed to the simple practicalities Alexander himself would commission – namely, as much paper as could reasonably fit into the bindings without bursting its seams.  
  
James McHenry had gone a step beyond on the same path, and when his mother and sisters sent him his monthly package of well wishing letters and gifts from their relocated home outside of Philadelphia, there was a bolt of simple, but pretty, green moreen fabric with a floral pattern that he immediately went into stitching into curtains to brighten the tiny room. He was not only apt at sewing through flesh, the surgeon turned soldier had grinned to say, and for living in America by himself until his family could join him from Ireland he had learned to put the lessons the mostly female populated McHenry clan had taught him to good use. Alexander, too, had helped him with his stitches a few evenings after his own duties were done for the day, though he would not suffer telling a soul that. Ever.  
  
Benjamin Tallmadge had a list of books he wished to recommend after speaking to the lady last winter, and he had his whaler friend keep an eye open on the pirate's belts that he frequented for both their cause and their . . . confidential informants. The would-be schoolteacher had assembled a well rounded collection of mysteries and romances and poetry – and even a few histories – and Alexander approved of the assortment. It was heartening to know that the spy-master had such taste; Alexander trusted the safety of Hercules and his household all the more for seeing it. Though, that had not stopped him from teasing Tallmadge over his taste in romances - he could not resist the opportunity presented to him when the other man bristled so easily over the slightest provocation. It was impossible for him to resist.  
  
Following that, little trinkets and odd ends continued to pour in. From Henry Knox, who added to Major Tallmadge's collection of books, and Nathaniel Greene, who gave a string of seashells he had collected at Cambridge, to Lord Stirling, who had gifted a pretty fan - drolly reminding them all that the cold would not last forever, and soon enough would they be marching under the hot July sun. Even his goodson, William Duer, had glared at him for the reminder before putting his own gift down - an embroidered pillow for the tomcat who inevitably followed Martha's every step since Morristown. _Though I do hope that dear little Hamilton does not stray too far from the house; there are hungry soldiers beyond who do not have our tolerance for his claws._ Alexander had only just resisted throwing the pillow at Duer's head, little appreciating the wordplay.   
  
Even the recently arrived Baron von Steuben had tied up an offering of white chocolates from his homeland as a treat. After seeing such, Lafayette was not one to be outdone by the equally foreign, newly minted inspector general, and added his own gift of French hard candies to the pot – muttering underneath his breath about the _Prussian_ all the while doing so.

In the end, the room could not look more welcoming, and each man who had a part in its construction now waited eagerly in the downstairs level, watching, waiting, for the moment when -  
  
\- a soldier wearing the tell-tale, white plumed helm of a cavalryman came riding into the yard, pushing his horse over the icy ruts in the road at a quick canter - the fastest he'd dare go. A glance at his pink, wind-burnt face revealed him as one of Baylor's men – or, one of Colonel William Washington's men, now, Alexander reminded himself – and, at seeing so, all those gathered in the war-room stood. The 3rd Continental Light Dragoons were tasked with escorting Lady Washington when she was on the move, and, sure enough, the man came to report that the lady's convoy was only a half-mile down the road. It would be a slow half mile with the sleigh making its way over the ice and snow, but it was still a mere half mile when compared to the _many_ miles between their theater of war and tidewater Virginia, nonetheless.  
  
At hearing so, their commander-in-chief wasted no time. Ignoring his tricorne and coat – which had been waiting for just such a moment, draped over the back of his chair – Washington strode out into the icy yard, seemingly impervious to the deceivingly gentle flurries that danced down from the perpetually grey sky above. He took his stance a good few yards from the door and trained his flinty expression down the road, with the firm set of his shoulders and his crossed arms suggesting that it would take an army to move him from his spot, no matter that he had all the anxious energy of a caged bear not even a minute before.  
  
Alexander sighed, and – resigned to waiting in the cold – put on his own hat and coat before trudging outside to take his spot next to his general. He shoved his gloved hands into his pockets, and tried to let the bite of the winter glide over, rather than pierce through, him. Yet, the idea of warmth seemed to be an illusive, tantalizing thing to his body, and he sighed again, his vaporous breath frosting on the air before giving into the might of the cold and dispersing.  
  
On Washington's opposite side, Lafayette seemed to be as oblivious to the winter as his commander was. He fairly bounced on the balls of his feet, and turned his head so that he could stare down the road to the crest of the hill – as if by doing so he could be afforded a better view than merely standing still and waiting like the professional soldier he was -  
  
“ - let him be, Alexander,” John muttered from his own right. “There's been few enough things to smile about this winter to take for granted the things we should be happy for.”  
  
True enough, he acknowledged grudgingly – all the while glancing around to see the yard slowly filling with the rank and file of soldiers, all eagerly gathered to greet their lady. Even so: “Isn't it normally _I_ who must endeavor to tell _you_ that?” Alexander could not help but point out, even so. He ground his jaws together to keep his teeth from chattering in the cold.  
  
John only snorted. “That is why our friendship works, I think,” he drolly replied. “We may take turns raising each other up from the mire of our thoughts. Now, it is simply mine.”  
  
Alexander felt his mouth crack a nearly painful half-grin, and was about to reply again when a shout went up from those gathered furthest down the road. He looked, and saw the white-plumed helms of the dragoons, riding in military formation to escort their charge as they crested the hill. A moment, and then he saw the convoy of sleighs behind them, carrying both Lady Washington – and, hopefully – a bounty of supplies that Congress had been able to beg from the good-will of Virginia. It was not, Alexander thought darkly, as if their central government had any power but to _kindly ask_ and simply hope for the best - but, that was not a line of thought he could indulge in at that time.  
  
John elbowed him again at seeing his mouth dip in so deep a frown, and Alexander forced a smile to his face, trying to let the current of joy in the yard take him along on its swell. To that end, he watched as the general stepped forward to greet the sleigh that came to a stop closest to the house, waving the footman away so that he could give the woman inside a hand down himself.  
  
A small, gloved hand was swallowed in George Washington's own as he helped his wife descend from the sleigh without slipping on the icy pathway. A smile threatened to cut through the man's normally grave countenance as he waited for her to steady herself, and then he raised both of Martha's hands to his mouth to kiss in greeting. Alexander had not realized just how haggard his commander had looked that winter until he watched that burden quite literally slip off of his shoulders, leaving him looking some ten years younger as his wife rolled her eyes and tugged on his necktie so that she could bring him down to her height and kiss his cheek. Even so, even she was not daring enough to greet her husband any more intimately than that in front of so many watchful eyes.  
  
“George,” Alexander heard Martha chide before even saying _hello, I have missed you_ , “Where is your hat and coat? You will catch your death in this chill.” While he was still stooped to match her height, she reached up to touch the shaved dome of his head with an arched brow.  
  
“Yet, I am not cold,” Washington seemed unable to step away from his wife, and as Alexander watched, the older man did smile in the face of his wife's concern. The expression was a small and crackling thing, but it was a smile, nonetheless.  
  
Martha huffed, but there was a very real fondness shining from her eyes – it was an expression that only dipped when Washington bent his head to say, close to her ear, “I was sorry, beloved, to hear about Anna. I wish -”  
  
But Martha steeled herself, and patted her husband's hand to say with a forced cheerfulness, “Yet, have you not heard? We are grandparents again.” _We_ , she said, no matter that John Parke Curtis was her son, and hers alone, Alexander noticed. She would not speak about the death of her sister then - not yet, he knew, not until she could unburden her grief fully and in private. “We have been blessed with another granddaughter,” her smile seemed more truly fixed to say. “Both mother and child are well, and send their love.”  
  
“Hopefully,” Washington's words were so low that they were nearly whispered. Even as close as he was, Alexander had to strain to overhear them, “This war will end soon, and I will have the pleasure of meeting her.”  
  
“I pray for nothing more than that,” Martha's voice was small, wistful almost, before she stood up straighter, and turned her gaze to those gathered around them – the general's wife once more in every fiber of her being.

Lady Washington was a small woman - hardly over five feet in height, and almost comically mismatched with her overly tall husband - but she held herself in a way that drew the eye and demanded deference, even before a word was spoken. Her features were kind, and while not a great beauty, there was a pretty sort of appeal to her plainness, and she had an engaging smile that never failed to brighten her eyes in such a way that a man could not help but notice. That sweetness masked a spine of steel, Alexander knew from personal experience, and though others would first consider her demure in her opinions, that did not prevent her from speaking her mind – boldly so, whenever the time and situation called for it.  
  
“You've all turned so thin,” her sweeping eyes finally concluded, and though her gaze was sharp, she did not dare chastise any of them for not eating enough. She could not, after the winter they had endured. “All you dear boys.”  
  
Martha stepped away from her husband only then, and looked prepared to give her greetings to each one of them when a harried looking soldier cut through the mass of those gathered to address Washington directly. Alexander watched steel return to both his spine and the set of his shoulders as the man – one of General Greene's aides – said, “Your Excellency, a thousand apologies for the interruption, but there is a . . . a problem with the delivery of supplies we just received,” in a voice that sounded overly apologetic, even to Alexander's ears. “General Greene is most . . . vexed, you see,” Alexander could well imagine what _vexed_ entailed, “and requests your help in putting the matter to rights, sir.”

Congress had seen fit to procure odds and ends for them - again - Alexander could well guess. He sighed, knowing that Greene would have been happy with even _half_ of the whole they had been promised. For him to be angered to this point . . .

Alexander stepped forward, ready to take the burden from his commander - and already more than aware of the pains Greene took upon himself as their new quartermaster, at that - but he was stopped from doing so by Martha patting her husband's hands. She was already stepping away from him, with the resignation of a soldier's wife more than apparent in her forced smile.  
  
“General Greene would not ask for you unless you were needed,” she gently encouraged. “And it looks as if you have hungry boys aplenty to care for. An hour's time added to nine months will not hurt overly much.”  
  
Washington opened his mouth as if he would protest, before clearly thinking the better of it. Instead, he inclined his head to Greene's aide and stiffly said, “I will join him momentarily.” His eyes then found Lafayette – who had been all but bursting at the seams to hold his own greetings and well wishes in - to ask, “If you would be so kind as to show my wife inside, I would be in your debt, Marquis.”  
  
Lafayette all but preened at the 'special favor' showed to him, and turned adoring eyes on his commander to say, “It would be my honor, _mon g_ _é_ _n_ _é_ _ral_.”  
  
He stepped forward and bowed to Martha with all of the flourish instilled in him by the French court, and offered her his arm to show her inside. Martha accepted with a matching curtsey, affection touching her smile all the while, and then they were moving inside. Washington watched his wife for a heartbeat, and Alexander thought, for a moment, that he would stay anyway, but then he turned sharply on his heel and was off to join General Greene.

“I do not envy the poor soul who will be on the receiving end of _that_ letter.” Having seen the same as he, John's eyes twinkled as he fell into step next to him, only paying half attention as Martha patiently greeted each of her husband's aides and officers in front of them.  
  
Alexander could only snort in reply, “Just as long as it's not _me_ that Washington is snipping at, then all is right in the world once more.”

He felt blessed warmth wash over him as they reentered the Potts house, and after Martha finished her greetings they ventured past the dining room that had been converted into their war-room (the officers now ate in an adjoining log cabin to the house), and the spot before the fire where the aides' sleeping pallets had been neatly moved out of the way for that day's work. Half of them slept in the war room at night, while the rest congregated in a bedroom upstairs; they rotated who slept where – and, most importantly, they shared the coveted position of closest to the fire in turns. Lafayette and his French aides had their own farmhouse on the property, though he knew that his friend was often sharing his rooms with whatever poor, freezing sentry was serving his place during the day – as many of the senior officers who rented homes at Valley Forge did. The third, smallest, bedroom upstairs was reserved for whatever member of Congress or visiting dignitary they had in Valley Forge that day, and when it was not in use as such, it was filled with officers looking for a reprieve from the cold and smokey cabins they had managed to cobble together to house their army in. The uppermost garret was reserved for the serving staff, whom Billy Lee watched with a careful, practiced eye, as proudly efficient as he was in his duties as if he were the chamberlain of Buckingham House – or St. James Palace, even.  
  
All of this Martha Washington took in with the seasoned practice of a woman who was long used to managing vast estates. She nodded as Lafayette spoke, and smiled appropriately at all the right moments, but even her smile was forced as she observed the cramped conditions they lived in. It was difficult to take in, he knew - especially while knowing that they were the fortunate ones when compared to their shivering brethren surviving in their lackluster shelters beyond. But Alexander watched as she squared her jaw, and her eyes flashed the same as steel reflecting a flame. Such an expression was an uncanny mirror of the general's own stare, and he knew a distant moment of wondering if Martha had gleaned such a look from George, or he from her.

There were too many men trying to fit into the small house at once, but not a one of them seemed to mind as they flocked in Lady Washington's wake. Though the room they had set aside for her was small and cramped, the fact of the matter was that they were proud of the pains they had taken to make the space more comfortable for their lady. Lafayette refused to relinquish his place with his arm wrapped though Martha's as he introduced her to the room, while Alexander and John stayed by the door. The rest of the staff took up various spots in the hall and on the staircase, with each and every one of them eager to see how their own gifts would be met by Lady Washington's eye.  
  
Sure enough, she noticed everything, from McHenry's curtains ( _I know that stitch_ , she had instantly approved, _and you know I like that color,_ _James_ _–_ _how kind of_ _you_ _to have remembere_ _d_ _)_ to the pretty china tea set that Richard Meade had been able to procure ( _a Virginian knows how a Virginian lady should keep her table, ma'am,_ he was pleased to flush and reply when thanked, his drawl thicker than it had been in the last two years he'd spent in the north), to the smart array of books and the dainty platters of sweets. Lafayette was loud in pointing out his French candies over Baron von Steuben's Viennese chocolates, for which Alexander could not help but roll his eyes for. This time, John did not even bother checking his dampening spirits; his huff of fond exasperation was a match for his own in every way.

One by one the men traded spots with their fellows so that they could personally greet the lady and receive her thanks for their gifts. Martha stood by the window, receiving them all with a look that seemed genuine to his watching gaze, no matter that he quite imagined her to be weary from her journey. Just as the men had gifts for her, she had brought tokens for each one of them, and she now passed them out the small, daintily wrapped boxes with her maid's help. Even while occupied by a pleasing task, he watched her sneak glances to the yard below more often than not, she no doubt being eager for her husband to free himself from his duties and return to her side – though she must of instinctively knew, as Alexander did, that she'd have to wait much longer than that. The faint sunlight from the overcast winter shone through the pretty green curtains, and the candles that had already been lit against the early evening hours of the season cast dancing shapes against her face, for a moment reminding him of . . .  
  
But Alexander pressed his mouth together in a thin line to keep from frowning, and simply decided that he was unable to stand still in the same spot for any longer. A whole day had passed without any true work being done, and he would see to that state of affairs being addressed now. There was no holiday from war, not in such a camp as Valley Forge, and there was work he could be doing.  
  
Pretending that he did not notice John's concerned look, and further ignoring where he suspected that Martha watched him leave, he gave his coveted spot by the door to the next man in line, and made his way through the press of bodies on the stairs to the now empty war-room. There, taking the seat closest to the fire, he wet his quill, and began to write.  
  
  
  
.

.

He fell asleep with his pen in hand, again. He must of, for he could not reclaim the memory of consciously retiring to bed the night before with any sort of clarity. Alexander frowned, unable to recall whether or not he'd eaten supper - which was not an unusual thing to wonder that winter, even when he wasn't preoccupied with writing himself into a coma - and further unable to remember shucking his jacket for the night and falling into an exhausted slumber on his pallet. It was his turn to sleep the furthest from the fire in the war-room, though John had thoughtfully spared him an extra one of his blankets to help him endure the cold. Blearily, he rubbed his eyes, distantly suspecting that the chill in the air had awakened him; he could never sleep a full night through while his body shook and shivered, not even after years of practice.  
  
Squinting, he glanced over the bundled forms of his sleeping comrades to see that the fire was still burning, and burning well; someone must have tended to it in the night. The sky visible though the windows was still black, a bleakly overcast night that showed no stars. Yet, there was a flush of charcoal softening the inky bellies of the clouds. They were not far from the dawn, he understood, feeling his body take on an awareness that would be hard to quiet for sleep. Annoyed with his body's tenacity, he closed his eyes and argued that he would not be able to write where a candle would disturb his fellow aides when they needed the respite the night afforded them. He closed his eyes, but nonetheless found his thoughts swimming as he tried to burrow back into the scant warmth provided by his extra blanket. Quieting his thoughts, he nestled closer to where he recognized John's familiar breathing at his back, and -  
  
\- there was a creaking of hinges at the door, no matter how thoughtfully the hand opening it may have intended for silence. It was nonetheless still quiet enough that Alexander was the only one of the aides to peer into the darkness, painfully alert with a soldier's instinctive readiness. He tensed, ready to find his feet and sound the alarm, when -  
  
He relaxed to see that it was no enemy solder – or, even, no soldier at all – cautiously tiptoeing through the foyer and towards the stairs. His momentary confusion for seeing such a _small_ man gave way to the enlightenment that he espied a woman - and not just any woman, but the general's wife - sneaking back up to her room. Martha used no candle or lantern to see by, and in the faint glow provided by the hearth, Alexander could see the long, loose braid of her dark hair over her shoulder, rather than properly tucked up and away underneath her matron's cap. Her entire body was swallowed by a familiar sea of black, dusted with crystal white flakes of snow – Washington's coat, Alexander recognized after blinking – with the yards of excess fabric trailing behind her like some great lady's train on the floorboards. Delicate with her step, she gathered up the overly long hem and silently made her way up the stairs, already paying careful attention to the creaking spots in the wood as if she were some girlish maiden sneaking in from seeing her beau, rather than a woman twice wed and four times a mother – and old enough to be _his_ mother, at that.  
  
Amused, despite himself, Alexander shook his head and grudgingly concluded that he should simply be glad that _someone_ was warm that night, at the very least. He shivered pitifully, even as John instinctively moved closer in an attempt to share his heat, knowing that there were many soldiers who made no attempts at discretion with the women who tended their camp – and many without the veil of legitimacy to excuse their actions, at that. It bemused him that the general took such pains to keep his wife from even friendly speculation as to the exact . . . nature of their marriage, no matter that there was not one soldier amongst them who would protest their commander taking advantage of the comforts of having his spouse there with him – especially when each man was already faced with the uncertain nature of war as a whole. Only Providence knew which of them would be free from the grave before the end of their conflict, and it was to each of them to live life as fully as possible in the meantime.  
  
Although, if more than just Alexander had been awake . . . well, he did not even bother trying to lie to himself: he would have kicked the man who would have dared to embarrass the lady that way, and they would have _both_ pretended at sleep. And, now . . .  
  
. . . he closed his eyes, and tried to find his own rest again. Such was a useless endeavor, he shortly understood, and by the time the dawn was awakening the sky – with the sunrise cracking through the grey shell encasing the heavens to expose rivets of deep red and vibrant purple, touching the towering cloud ridges with flame – he stood, defeated, to begin his day.  
  
After a cold dash for the privy, his teeth continued to chatter as he washed up as best he could with cloth and basin inside the house again. Methodically, he layered on underclothes for warmth as best he could before shrugging on his uniform and tying his hair back. He would have to brave washing it later that day, he grimaced to know, and thus suffer the chill that came from the wet mass drying - already the thought was anathema to his mind. Yet, it was either risk catching a cold, or risk the sicknesses that came with uncleanliness – and he'd never quite cared for presenting anything less than the best version of himself, at that. Due to circumstance, he'd had to face the world as _less_ too many times before to suffer it when he need not.  
  
With his morning ablutions finished, he made his way to the kitchen to find the serving staff already hard at work. When greeted by the sights and smells within, his stomach gave an unflattering growl – apparently, he had _not_ eaten the night before – and his search rewarded him with a hunk of still-hot bread from the oven and a mostly fresh apple from a barrel that must have just arrived from Virginia. Billy Lee, seeing him, promised that the cook had eggs and pork enough to make them all a real breakfast, and Alexander thanked the negro, already looking forward to eating with his comrades once they were awake and ready.  
  
Yet, until then, he had time in which to write. He was up early enough to meet the post-rider, and he took the first sack of correspondence for the day and began to sort through it. Picking out a few letters that he was expecting, with his words already spinning through his mind for how he'd reply, he took his candle, and, rather than working in the still dark war-room or the kitchen where he'd be in the way, he took his spoils and his writing supplies, and made his way upstairs to the now empty guestroom – whose occupants, Billy Lee had knowingly informed him, had left before the dawn. He could write there until the rest of the aides were awake.  
  
He took the stairs two at a time, and avoided every creaking spot but for the top most one. His arrival was punctuated by movement from the second of the three rooms, and before he could duck inside the smaller guestroom, the door opened to reveal Oney Judge – Martha's negro maid, slipping through with a basket of mended garments in hand. Alexander blinked at the sight, momentarily taken aback by the staggering amount of needlework the two women had been able to accomplish since the night before.  
  
_If_ _the fairer sex_ _could wield arms_ _and plot tacics_ _with as much finesse as_ _they apply to_ _their sewing_ , the thought was a quick, ghosting one across his mind, _this war would be over in a fortnight_. The idea gave him a pleased half-smile before the fantasy of it was brushed away for his true work that day.  
  
“Ona,” he stepped forward to warmly greet the maid, remembering her from Morristown. He smiled his most winning smile, well knowing the expression's effect on any woman he turned it towards. “It's too good to see another summer bird here in this frightfully cold corner of the country. I trust that you're bearing these snows better than I, at least?”  
  
His greeting was successful, and his grin - predictably - drew a small, fond expression from Oney in return. Though not as cowed a slave-woman as too many Alexander had known, she was nonetheless a hard worker who would not dare to take liberties with her imposed place. As ever, he felt an angry pulse heat his blood at the knowledge that there should be no need for such a distinction, before swallowing that urge to battle for another time.   
  
“It's not nearly as warm as Virginia, sir, it's true,” Oney took a moment to commiserate in agreement, her voice soft. “But we be managin', even so.”  
  
But, that shared moment of empathy having passed, she was then gone on her errand. Alexander watched her trek down the stairs, she being equally careful on the squeaking planks for the still sleeping aides, and was about to turn for the guestroom, when -  
  
“Alexander, I thought I heard your voice.”  
  
He was not quick enough to escape Martha's notice. Standing in the doorway, already dressed for the day in a sensible, warm grey frock and her dark hair twisted up and out of the way once more, her sharp eyes were canny as she took in his writing case and stolen snack.  
  
“Are you looking for a place to work, dear?” she asked, a pleasant smile turning up her mouth. Even so, he would be a fool to mistake her for anything other than a hunter baiting her trap.  
  
“No, ma'am, not yet,” Alexander half-fibbed. He was initially content to end his answer there before thinking the best of it, seeing the way her eyes narrowed in an expression unique to all mothers. It would not take much deduction on her part to espy that the envelopes he held were addressed to General Washington – and not to him. He was caught. “Well, I had thought to get a head-start on my correspondence with Congress, it's true,” after a heartbeat, he amended. “And, truth be told, it's your husband's correspondence, actually - but they are oftentimes one and the same. Especially as of late.”  
  
“If you wish, you may pen your letters comfortably in here. There's tea to give you a head-start on the day, and it's still hot. Or I may have Oney fetch you some coffee,” Martha offered. “And the lighting is good – better than your candle alone, at least. Come, I'll not have you ruining your eyes when you need not do so.”  
  
Still, Alexander hesitated in the hallway. His mind spun, looking for a polite way to refuse, but finding none. “Ma'am,” he tried, somewhat slowly, at first, “I do not think that would be . . . ”  
  
But his argument – an admittedly _hypocritical_ argument in lieu of the lady's knowledge of his character - of propriety was cut short by Oney coming back up the stairs, with her basket switched out for the next load of mending from the washroom. Martha raised a challenging brow, as if guessing what he had been about to say. Silently, she refuted his argument without a single word spoken. Though she was of a height where even _he_ looked down on her, she stared at him with all the presence of a colossus, and he was defeated.  
  
“And, what's more than that, it's warm in here.” As a seasoned commander navigating a battlefield, she saved her strongest attack for last. “The hearth has been going all night, and I know for a fact that the room you were intending on commandeering has been cold for hours – there's no need for you to catch a chill for disdain of company. We promise that we shall not disturb you from your work, you have my word.”  
  
Alexander hesitated, nearly swayed by the prospect of warmth alone. He had not been warm - truly warm - in weeks. Months, even, it sometimes felt. And, now . . .  
  
Martha opened the door wider for Oney to enter behind her, and yet still lingered while he deliberated with himself. Finally, he huffed to give in to his lady's demands – already well knowing that any further resistance on his part would have been for naught, no matter how he worded his argument, anyway.  
  
“Just for now,” Alexander nonetheless gave the terms of his surrender, “until there is movement downstairs and I won't be a bother to anyone.”  
  
“Of course, dear,” Martha agreed in a timbre that nonetheless held too much amusement for his taste, and moved to invite him in.  
  
True to her word, she headed towards the small set of table and chairs by the fireplace, and sat down next to Oney to start on their work. The two women quietly sorted through the worn and tired clothing with a quick, almost militant proficiency – deeming some fit only for rags in the surgeons' huts, and frowning over what they could salvage and mend otherwise. Alexander watched their practiced efficiency for a long moment before sitting down on the opposite side of the table. There was room enough there for both his papers and the tea service, and, for the moment, that was enough.  
  
Though, he was not blind to notice that his seat was the closest one to the hearth. There, the cheery glow from the fire seemingly caught underneath the wool of his uniform jacket to embrace him with its warmth, thawing him from the inside out. Alexander wondered if that was purposefully done on Martha's part before sighing and deciding not to think more of it. It most likely was. And so, he busied himself with his reading while he ate his bread and fruit – perhaps more quickly than he should have done in polite company, but he truly _was_ famished. By that time, dawn had a firm hold on the sky, and pale shades of pink and violet streamed in through the drapes. Beyond the glass pane, birds had gathered at the feeder perched on the outer sill, and he listened to the warbling songs of the finches and thrushes as they foraged for the best seeds. Distracted, he stared, for a moment forgetting his letters as their song seemingly welcomed in the morn. The fire behind him warmed him to his fingers, and the ache in his belly was at last subsiding.  
  
“You are up and about early,” at last, Alexander could not keep himself from commenting as he ate the last few crumbs of his bread. Judging from the accomplished mending and the readiness of her dress, he fairly suspected that Martha had not tried again for sleep after sneaking in that morning.  
  
“What can I say?” Alexander could not quite tell if her smile was from amusement over his inability to wholly keep to silence, or from true affection for his words. The latter idea made him feel strangely uncomfortable, and so, he chose to believe the former. “Life on a farm, no matter how grand, starts well before the sun rises, and such is now simply habit on my part.” A moment passed, and Martha's smile softened before she revealed, “And, what's more than that, my son and his wife were guests at Mount Vernon before I left. Their newborn babe was not yet sleeping the whole night through, and I must confess that I took more turns with the girl than, perhaps, I should have done to let her mother rest. But, it has been too long since I last had a baby crying in my home, and I could not resist; I grew used to sleeping but little, I fear.”  
  
“You've another granddaughter, we were pleased to hear?” Politely, Alexander could not keep from giving his own congratulations on the matter, as propriety dictated.  
  
“Yes, she's my second granddaughter, born just minutes before the new year; a very strong and healthy babe,” Martha was all too happy to confirm for him. Her cheeks flushed as she absently fingered the plain linen bundled in her lap. “She's another Martha for the family, though I suspect that Jacky named her with his sister in his heart, rather than his mother.” A long moment passed, one and then two. “It is good, though, that he did. Very good, indeed.”  
  
Alexander tucked away a pleased expression of his own, happy as he was that the her family had something good to celebrate that winter - especially on the heels of such tragedy. He could not mention the lady's dead sister then, not even to offer his condolences, though he would endeavor to find the words later. Anna Marie Basset's death had been the first hurdle that had prevented Martha's earlier arrival in camp, he solemnly remembered. He had been there when the general received the news by letter – first from John Parke Curtis' cold pen, and then, a few days later, from Martha's own shaking hand. Washington, though normally disdainful of those who used drink as a vice, turned aside wine in favor of a good Barbados rum that night, and Alexander had not kept up for long before the general shared the tale of his good-sister and her place in their hearts. Martha was the eldest of her many siblings, and, thus, was as much a second mother as a sister to many of them. Anna Marie had been her unacknowledged favorite, and – this, Washington had smiled sadly to say - had she not approved of his suit, Martha surely would not have accepted his hand, all those years ago. _To court a woman is to also court her sisters_ , had been the wisdom passed on to him. _Better_ _is it_ _to_ _make them your allies, rather than your enemy._ And, for him to be absent while his wife grieved over such a loss . . .  
  
For that was the underlying sting to the general's pains, Alexander had slowly understood. The surprise he'd felt at the realization had, at first, shamed him. Even he, it seemed, was at times guilty of seeing only the larger than life legend, the _symbol_ , in George Washington, no matter that he had more opportunity – and reason – than most to know the flawed man of mortal blood he truly was instead.  
  
To distract himself from his thoughts, Alexander at last moved to pour a cup of tea as had first been offered – waving Martha away when she rose to do so for him. Or, at least, he attempted to. His efforts were futile, and he at last submitted to her wishes without any further protest. The skills of a hostess were a talent learned as surely as a soldier girded his own weapons on the battlefields of polite society, and he would not insult her by insisting that he could manage on his own.  
  
In the end, the tea, as she had promised, was hot and fragrant. It went lengths to warm him, fighting his chill as effectively as the hearth at his back and the faint sunlight streaming in through the glass panes of the window.

Martha put the pot back down with practiced ease, and for a moment fondly studied the blue flowers and green vines delicately painted on the china. She gave a small sigh, and reflected out loud, “Richard needn’t have gone to such lengths for me; I know not how he managed to find such fine craftsmanship, especially as secluded as you are out here.”  
  
Alexander could not help but snort, well remembering the pains his fellow aide had taken to procure the tea set. “Believe me when I say that it was nothing in Meade's eyes, ma'am. You see beauty in the design, but _h_ _e_ was still lamenting that he could not find you a set decorated with gold-leaf. And,” after a heartbeat, he shrugged to add, “it _was_ a practical gift, truth be told. The general, he lost his own dishware when we quit the field at Brandywine, did you know that?”  
  
“Yes, that made it into George's letters,” Martha's answering half-smile was wry to confirm. “He was quite put out to tell me so – I do believe that loss gained a more irritable line from his pen than the defeat in battle itself.” She shook her head, for a moment looking beyond him – to where a bossy jaybird was shouldering his way in through the smaller finches, his blue wings a proud splash of colour against the dawn. “I am surprised that he did not fill the lack already. My husband can be downright . . . I hesitate to say  _feminine,_ yet there it is, when seeing to such details. He can have a terrible habit of impulse buying, at that – as I'm sure you've noticed . . . Or, at least, in times of peace, he does.” Martha paused to correct herself, and, for a moment, Alexander was certain that she spoke more to herself than to him with such familiarity. He let her form her thoughts aloud on the air, knowing from experience how invaluable it was to see to his own mind in such a way. He did not speak as she found her words to continue.  
  
“I did not know my husband during his surveying years, and I was only parted from him once during the Seven Years' War – when we were only betrothed, at that . . . Yet I am merely glad, now, that he has previously lived so roughly . . . through such hard conditions in the wild to prepare him for . . . ” but she opened her mouth, and closed it again. No matter what she had seen at Cambridge . . . at Morristown . . . neither of those winter camps had been able to prepare her for the miseries of Valley Forge, and she was struck by them. Alexander watched her attempt to stay the tide of that wound.  
  
“War helps you reevaluate your priorities, I suppose,” Alexander's voice was soft as he mused in reply. In his hand, the china teacup seemed impossibly delicate, with the smiling blue flowers fighting the cold as much as the crackling flames in the hearth.  
  
“Even I am learning as much, in my own way,” Martha agreed, focusing her gaze on him again. He had no doubt of her full attention when she next said, “Which is why I wish you boys would not have made such a fuss over my arrival. I've already taken a bed that may have instead slept some poor, shivering soul, and I'm another mouth to feed when you have but little to share. It is a thought that already pains me to reflect on, and I'd rather not have one man know even the slightest of troubles on my behalf while I'm here.”  
  
“You could say that of all the women wintering here,” Alexander shrugged to say. It did not cost him to assuage her worries, and so he said, “And yet, we'd be an even more miserable mess without you – the general would have a hard time compelling the fairer sex to quit our ranks, even in a camp such as this, just for that reason alone.”  
  
He looked up from his tea to see Martha watching him with a look he could not quite define. And so, after a moment, he did not attempt to. He placed his cup back down on the saucer – gently so, for he'd never hear the end of it from Richard if he was the first one to harm the set – and turned back to the letters waiting before him. He put on his spectacles, picked up his pen, and with the growing ease of long familiarity, he slipped into Washington's voice to address Henry Laurens and the rest of Congress to say -

“Oh, that does remind me,” Martha's voice was a happy note of sound as she watched him write, and at her gesture Oney seemed to instinctively know the wishes of her mistress and rose. Alexander glanced up to watch the maid retrieve a small box wrapped in green paper from the trunk at the foot of the bed. The box, Alexander was slow to understand – though, perhaps, he should not have been after seeing his comrades receive similar such gifts – was for him. Martha Washington had bought him a present. He felt something twist inside of him at the gesture, with the concept of receiving gifts being a foreign one in its entirety – near to the point of awkwardness, even.  
  
“You left too early last evening for me to give you this,” Martha said, the chiding in her voice gentle enough to be missed completely - nearly, at least.  
  
“My apologies, ma'am. Unfortunately, I had work demanding my attention,” Alexander shrugged to offer his excuse, “and I was the only one who seemed interested in getting it done.” Even so, his touch was gentle as he turned the small package over in his hands. It was rectangular in shape, longer than it was wide, with a face nearly as broad as his hand, and he wondered at its contents. An almost childish curiosity tugged at him, despite his higher reason insistently reminding his heart of his indifference.  
  
“America, I am certain,” Martha's voice was grave to reply, “is indebted to you for your unflagging attention to your duty.”  
  
But the teasing in her voice only drew the most distant note of awareness from his mind. He could not yet respond to it. Instead, he tugged almost hesitantly on the cream coloured ribbon binding the package to mutter, “you got me a gift,” aloud. Perhaps somewhat stupidly, he could not keep himself from acknowledging the obvious. He hated the almost awed note that coloured his voice, and, for a moment, he wished that he could take the words back.  
  
“Yes, Alexander,” Martha's voice was equally as soft in reply. She had heard it too. “You – all of you, really – were much on my mind this summer, and this was but a little I could do to bring a feeling of home to the war. You boys deserve this little, and more.”  
  
_Home_ , he thought, fighting the urge he had to snort – perhaps, for his fellow aides, such was true. And yet, for him . . .  
  
Well, enough of that, then. Gathering his composure, he refused to allow that thought completion within his mind. Swallowing – his throat was rough to his use, no matter the higher determination of his brain – he crisply tugged on the ribbon and pulled back the paper. He went delicately about his work, no matter his attempts at maintaining indifference, to avoid tearing what he did not have to tear. At his efforts, the wrapping parted to reveal a small, prettily lacquered box of cherry wood with a golden clasp. He ran a curious finger over the smooth edges, and then thumbed open the clasp to reveal -  
  
Three steel-nibbed pens of varying sizes, each with a handsome handle of carved wood, polished to a high shine and glossed with a varnish to protect them from wear. There was a fetching, scalloped design etched into the wood, and the dark stain caught in the rivets in a pleasing way to the eye. For a moment, he could only touch the black velvet lining the case with a careful finger; he could not bring himself to pick one of the pens up. Not at first.  
  
“Pens?” he found his voice a reedy sound to his use. After a moment longer than he would have wished, he swallowed, and found a stronger timbre to try again, “You bought _pens_ for me?”  
  
“You go through quills so quickly, dear,” Martha pointed out. “Last winter, I remember you mentioning your distaste for the steel nibs on these instruments - ”  
  
“ - the nibs make it difficult to write small,” he remembered sharing his opinion with her. He was surprised that it was a memory she kept. “They force my script to curve, which means less words on the page; I cannot write as quickly, at that.” Even then, he felt his mouth dip in distaste at the thought. And, yet . . .  
  
Slowly, he picked one of the pens up, and tested its weight in his palm. He liked the feel of it; how solid its presence was. Already he found his mind swimming with words, bubbling up from the fountain of his subconscious and ready for paper like a wave searching for the seashore. His fingertips itched to _write_.  
  
“I found that there were others with similar such complaints as you,” Martha revealed, sounding pleased with herself. “And, finally, after some searching I found a gentleman in Williamsburg who was able to help me with this purchase. He was a most fascinating sort to speak with, and he clearly loved his craft; you would have enjoyed meeting him. Can you imagine, there are even steel pens that carry a reservoir of ink within them – thus negating the need for an inkwell entirely? He'd have difficulty getting his hands on one from Europe, with the war being what it is, but he was working on patenting his own model, which I am sure would be of great interest to you in the future.”  
  
Alexander placed the first pen down, and picked up the second, his mind spinning at the idea. The time that would save, he thought. How much _more_ he'd be able to write then . . .  
  
“I hope that this model helps you,” Martha finished to say. “And, if not, they may simply be kept for when you have a true study and a desk all your own . . . and, perhaps, more leisure time with which to enjoy your writing.”  
  
For that, he could not help but snort. “I do not think I have ever been a _leisurely_ writer - even as a child, ma'am.” Alexander could not completely agree with her vision.  
  
“Somehow, that does not surprise me,” Martha could not resist a low sort of chuckle in reply. “Well then, a fitting keepsake they will be if you decide against the feel of them. A memento, to remember this winter, and this . . . this place.”  
  
He could hear the grimace in her voice, and he looked up from his new pens in time to see her glance around the cramped room – the cramped room that was nonetheless a veritable _palace suite_ in the eyes of those poor souls who made due with the barest of lodgings beyond them. Blood on the snow from bare feet had become a regular aesthetic in Valley Forge, and he knew that she was not blind to the suffering she had arrived to take part of – even if it was in the barest of ways. Alexander fought another shiver, even so close to a warm hearth that did not smoke, and felt a pang for his brethren once more.  
  
At the window, framed by the dawn that was now a full light in the east, a sweet sort of trill sounded – unique from the birdsong before. He looked, the same as Martha did, to see a beautiful bird of yellow and black daintily pecking at the offering of seeds. It was a spring bird, Alexander was surprised to see, already back from wintering in the warm tropics of the south to -  
  
“ - an oriole,” Martha sounded just as pleasantly surprised as him to observe. “And one returned so early, at that.”  
  
“And hungry from the flight, it looks,” Alexander was pleased to watch the tiny bird stretch his wings and hop from perch to perch, clearly delighted with the feast spread before him. It was a small, simple thing to observe the gaily colored creature flutter about, but, in such a place as Valley Forge, the respite it provided from the bleak shape of the war was no small thing. He felt his heart settle to a calm beat in his chest as he placed his pens aside, content to observe for a moment.  
  
Martha, for her part, stood and walked the few paces to stand by the window. There, the dawn threw shades of pink and gold against her skin; it brought out highlights in her hair, with the light catching in her eyes as she pressed a single fingertip to the cool glass.

“It is a thoughtful thing, the bird-feeder,” she at last commented. “Someone must have gone through many pains to put it up at such a height.” She then turned and looked at him, and he saw the question in her eyes. He closed the case cradling his new pens, and momentarily wondered how he would answer. At first, he had been comfortable with her never knowing; a part of him, even, had perhaps unfairly doubted that she would much notice the addition, at that.  
  
“I have received a gift from every other aide – and tokens from more than a few of the officers, besides,” Martha remarked wryly. “And yet - though you'd need not have done the same, that's not what I mean to say - I can't believe that you would not do similarly when all of your comrades have.”  
  
The opening was there, Alexander understood. He need only take credit for his work.  
  
And so, he inhaled slowly through his nose. Quietly, he revealed on an exhale, “I . . . I wanted to bring some beauty to this awful place. My . . . my mother . . .” but he bit his lip, and could not quite find his words to share his reasoning - his tale. He did not, in a moment of stubborn loyalty, twisting awfully at his heart like a blade sunk deep, know if it was a story he was at liberty to share.  
  
He . . . he had built bird-feeders in St. Croix, contraptions that gave nectar through proxy, rather than by flower blooms, to tempt the hummingbirds into the human congestion of the harbor-town. It had worked, and his mother had never gone without their song. She had always been grateful for his efforts, and every time the birds sang she had smiled . . . she had smiled, and on their darkest days together . . . even when the fever had wracked her body and her lungs had shuddered in her chest . . .

. . . well, it had been enough.  
  
But he could not say that . . . he could not bring Rachel Hamilton's memory into the room, with the song of the northern birds and the cold morning light and Martha Washington herself struggling to look at him levelly - without betraying either a pity born of understanding or a deep, mothering concern, he distantly understood. Perhaps, even, she struggled to hide an affection that should have been another woman's role in his life, while he . . .  
  
_I am not so skittish a horse to be treated with_ _so_ _careful a_ _hand,_ he irritably reflected, even as he looked away so that he did not have to see if she lost, or won the battle within herself. _Only . . ._  
  
“It is beautiful, Alexander,” Martha finally said, rather than forcing him to admit the words himself. “I thank-you for your thoughtfulness.”  
  
“It was nothing, ma'am,” he found his voice rough to his use. It grated upon his ears as steel grating against stone. “Truly.”  
  
Perhaps somewhat ungracefully, he took off his glasses and moved to gather his writing case together again. He stood, and tossed his apple core into the hearth; distantly, he heard the seeds pop as the moisture from the remaining flesh evaporated. There was movement downstairs, he listened to find, and he could rejoin his comrades again. He would not be a bother now; he would not be in the way.  
  
Martha watched him prepare to leave all the while, something sad, he thought to recognize, next to the the dawn reflected in her eyes. But she did not stop him; she did not bid that he stay. For a moment, he was grateful to her for doing so.

“I thank-you for the pens, and the hospitality,” no matter his wish to be gone, he was not so impolite as to keep from saying. He paused by the door, and summoned what a smile he could. “I wish you a good morning, ma'am. Oney,” he tipped his head to the maid, as well, and saw the small, pleased expression he earned in return.  
  
After hearing their farewells in reply, he reached out to turn the handle, but was stalled in his efforts by the door opening after a brief knock. Alexander jumped back at the unexpected visitor, caught in his stride to see the equally startled expression on George Washington's face before his surprise faded for a warm, bemused expression of greeting.  
  
“Hamilton,” the general said, puzzled before understanding clearly registered in his gaze. The writing case, he knew, must have given him away. “You are at work early.”  
  
“What can I say, sir? There's much to do.” The words fell from his mouth by rote, no matter that they were true enough to say. “Her ladyship was kind enough to grant me light enough to see by while the rest of the household slept.”  
  
“It was my pleasure to do so, Alexander. You are welcome here any time,” he heard Martha say from behind him. Hearing his wife's voice, he lost Washington's notice, and something about the general's usually indomitable expression just barely softened. His severity lost its edge. Alexander blinked, amused, despite himself, to see the change overtake his commander. Though no one could ever call General Washington's uniform anything less than immaculate, he had taken careful pains with his appearance that day, and there was an almost youthful cast to his manner, no matter how understated it would be to the casual observer. Alexander glanced back to see that an equal such smile transformed Martha's face, and fought the – frankly rude – urge he had to role his eyes in long-suffering exasperation. The history books were never going to believe the stories he had to tell.  
  
Alexander moved so that Washington could stoop to enter the room, but lingered by the doorway when he heard the renewed song of the yellow bird at the feeder. The bird was joined, Alexander gave a half-smile to see, by a more dully colored companion of grey and gold-cream, and chirped happy to share his find with his mate.  
  
Yet, he was not the only one to notice the pair. “Orioles,” Washington too was pleased to see as he walked over to stand by his wife. He absently took her hands in his own, and brushed his thumbs over her knuckles in a wordless greeting. “So far north, this long before the spring?”  
  
“Perhaps,” Martha added to her husband's words, even as her eyes turned and sought out his own, “the spring will come sooner than we may have first thought?” Still lingering by the door, Alexander shifted his weight from foot to foot to hold her gaze.  
  
“If Providence is kind, it will,” Washington sighed deeply to say. “We could make use with such a respite after the winter we have endured. Until then . . . I hope that the rest of the season is kind to the poor creature. He may not have understood, exactly, what he was flying into, when he left his sunshine and palm trees behind.”  
  
“Oh, I think that he'll manage,” Martha patted her husband's hands to say. Alexander watched as her eyes softened, slipping from him with a knowing sort of confidence before turning to rest on her spouse once more.  
  
“Just as we'll all manage,” Alexander could not help but square his shoulders to agree. For a moment, he took in the looks that were turned on him; he allowed himself to fill on them, the same as the birds finding a boon in the feeder after so long a winter.  
  
“Alexander!” he heard John's ungraceful shout from the foot of the stairs, punctuating the moment with an unexpected levity. “Put your paper away, there's breakfast to be had! You are not skipping two meals in a row if I have anything to say about it.” From next to his friend, he could hear the unmistakable sound of Lafayette's accent, and the familiar booming of Baron von Steuben's boisterous laughter in answer to some unheard conversation.  
  
“There will be no bacon left if you do not hurry, _mon ami_ ,” was Lafayette's more coaxing argument. “I can only hold off the fiends for so long before your chance is lost!”  
  
Alexander could not help but snort in reply, and even as he turned to say farewell once more, Washington was waving him away. “Go on, son. There will be plenty of time for work as the day goes on.”  
  
His previously dour mood thus brightened - so much so that he ignored the vexing appellation without any contest - he tipped his head one last time, and turned away from the warmth of the room to the coolness of the stairs and his waiting comrades below. In his left hand, he held his new pens in a tight grip, with his words already flowing from his mind as if he had paper ready and clean before him. But, first: “I swear to almighty God in heaven, McHenry, if you eat my share of bacon, _again,_ ” he let his loud voice trumpet his arrival, “I will _not_ be held responsible for my actions.”  
  
The winter, he knew, was not quite through with them . . . but the spring was ever drawing near, and they had so much work to do.

  


End file.
